


Going forth by day

by Alecto



Category: Sherlock (TV), Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Case Fic, Crossover, Estrangement, Gen, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Post-Canon, Post-Reichenbach, Resurrection, Reunions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-01-23 17:31:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1573907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alecto/pseuds/Alecto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Days before a major tournament in London, the so-called "King of Games" goes missing. Sherlock wouldn't have cared if his cousin Rebecca hadn't been the one to bring him the case.</p><p>Kaiba wouldn't approve. And that's exactly why Rebecca didn't tell him before she went to the newly returned Sherlock Holmes for help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darkmus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkmus/gifts).



> _Dedicated to darkmus, who has been a fantastic friend through many ups and downs. We'll always have puppyshipping. ♥_
> 
>  
> 
> This fic is canon-compliant for Sherlock up to the end of series 2 and for the entire series of Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters. There will be mystery solving, and there will be children's card games.
> 
> Thanks to M for beta'ing as usual.

The day stretched before John in a seemingly endless gray expanse of ennui and heavy uncertainty. He contemplated working on a blog post detailing Sherlock's miraculous return. His blog readership had tripled in the last week, even though John's last update was almost three years ago. But like the darkened bruise on the cheek where John had landed a blow, Sherlock's dark mood hung over the flat like a thick miasma.

The blank draft sat untouched in the same browser tab since he first opened it several days ago. The ability to coherently articulate his feelings escaped him entirely. There were probably words in the English language or some other that could encapsulate the tumultuous mix of anger, disbelief, relief, betrayal, and suspicion that John felt. But he didn't know them.

Sherlock might though.

John chanced a glance at the man lying comatose-like over the sofa. Except for the slow, gentle rise and fall of his shoulders, Sherlock hadn't so much as twitched in the last hour. John checked his watch. No, make that the last two hours. Was he asleep?

The silence closed in around John— until it crawled down his throat, catching words in its net before they could be given voice. It made the situation seem even more wrong (for with Sherlock, bad moods and loud discord went hand-in-hand like jam and toast).

It was not the first time that John regretted letting Sherlock back into 221B.

The doorbell buzzed. John nearly flung the laptop from his lap in his haste to stand. At the intrusion, Sherlock flopped over— his gaze burning a hole in John's back as he started to descend the stairs.

He threw open the door and found himself looking straight into a pair of bright blue eyes and a pert nose dotted with freckles. Carl, one of the few remaining reporters still camping out by their stoop, waved cheerfully and snapped a photo of John and the newcomer. They both ignored the reporter in favor of studying each other. She was young— no older than eighteen. Still, she wouldn't be their youngest client ever.

"Does Sherlock Holmes live here?" She asked with one foot already in the door. She wasn't the first American to come to them either.

John was forced to step back when she pressed forward for entrance. "Are you a client, Miss? I should warn you that he's been in a foul mood for awhile."

"When is his grumpiness not? He's almost as bad as Kaiba."

"I'm sorry, who?"

The feeling of being left far, far behind was alarmingly familiar. Especially when she swept past him to clamor up the stairs instead of acknowledging him any further.

John swore. Maybe not a client then? A fan with no sense of boundaries then?

He took the steps two at a time to catch her barging straight into their living room. Crazed fan was looking more and more likely— given the way she was staring at Sherlock's back with lips twitching between a smile and a frown. John quickly intercepted and tried to guide her over to one of the armchairs.

She dodged around him and moved closer to Sherlock until she stood right in front of the couch. Then she placed a hand on each hip and boldly announced, "Sherlock Holmes, you are an enormous gaping cunt."

Sherlock went unnaturally still and John gaped.

Even if what she said was true, John couldn't deny the protective streak raising within him. "Miss—"

She cut him off with a "Rebecca, Rebecca Hopkins" and the flash of a pearly white-lined grin. Her mercurial shifts were startlingly familiar, but were starting to give John whiplash.

The tense lines of Sherlock's body relaxed as he shifted to face them. Even from below, Sherlock still managed to look down his nose at her. "What is that atrocious accent?"

"Hello, I've only lived in America for the last ten years. How the hell do you suppose I should talk then?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose as if she had offended his delicate, upper-class sensibilities. It turned out that she had. "You sound like an uneducated mallrat."

"Oh, you're one to talk, Mister I-faked-my-death-to-get-the-upper-hand-on-my-archnemesis. Did you even think about us, your family, before you pulled that stunt?"

"Because you made such a great effort to keep in touch?" Sherlock arched one infuriating eyebrow upwards.

"I tried. You didn't exactly make it easy and the last thing I was going to do was ask Mycroft to pass messages for me!"

The argument volleyed back and forth between Sherlock and this Rebecca without a missed beat. Family, she had said, but what sort?

For one horrifying moment, John wondered if she might somehow be Sherlock's daughter. She was young enough. He was old enough. "Sherlock, who is she?"

Without looking in his direction, Sherlock snapped irritably, "John, I'd urge you not to strain your brain trying to make deductions you have no hope of making. Much less correctly."

She threw her hands in the air. "You are such a fucking ass!"

"So she's not your estranged daugh—"

"No!" They shouted in unison and similarly recoiled from one another.

Rebecca rolled her eyes. "I'm his cousin."

"Second cousin." Sherlock then added, "Once removed. My parents took her in, while her grandfather was busy inventing crackpot theories and being shunned by the academic community."

Her expression darkened and she growled, "Grandpa was not a crackpot."

John startled at the sudden ferocity in her voice.

That Sherlock even had the decency to look remotely ashamed spoke volumes about their relationship. "When did Arthur pass?"

"A few months ago."

Sherlock's alert eyes scanned over the planes of her young face. "He passed away peacefully then. In his sleep?"

She nodded mutely. When she quieted, she appeared smaller and younger.

"But that can't be why you're here." Now he edged on coaxing, which he never did.

She straightened and tossed back her long blond hair. "No, I need your help finding someone. My Darling has gone missing."

-x-x-x-

Rebecca's so-called "darling" turned out to be a Japanese man by the name of Yuugi Mutou, still short and impossibly baby-faced at the age of twenty-nine. Going by the number of fansites and news articles that popped up when his name was plugged into a search engine, he was some kind of minor celebrity.

The number of results doubled when Sherlock ran the same search with the name in kanji. He soon wandered into looking up Rebecca instead, both surprised and unsurprised by some of the accolades she'd earned since they last saw each other. Right now, he was busy reading through her senior thesis on a novel way to incorporate individual cognitive models of decision making within larger multi-agent models of cyber security.

The smell of Indian takeout registered before movement in the kitchen did. John was home again. His stomach began rumbling without his permission. Stupid traitorous body.

The laptop (John's laptop) was now opened to Rebecca's page on something called the Duel Monsters' Pro League Network. As it turned out, what Sherlock had hoped would be a passing childhood fancy had evolved into an enduring passion. But if Rebecca was going to waste her time and youth on card stock, she at least excelled at it. Since first winning the title at the age of ten, she remained reigning champion of the United States Pro League, beating out adults more than twice her age year after year. According to the website, her worldwide ranking remained solidly within top ten. And last year, she broke into the top five for the first time.

John drifted into the living room, hovering behind Sherlock with a plate of vindaloo as he scanned over the webpage. He gave a low, impressed whistle as he got to the bottom of the page. "Huh, so your cousin's that Rebecca Hopkins."

Sherlock craned his head to glance up at his flatmate. He only hoped his expression properly conveyed the amount of disdain that he was currently feeling. "Don't tell me you play as well."

The obvious disapproval rolled off John like water, and the lack of reaction left Sherlock feeling oddly cold. (John was so much harder to read nowadays— much more closed off from before.)

"I tried when I was a younger," the blond man replied before handing the plate to Sherlock. "But I was never very good at Duel Monsters myself. It was more of Harry's thing, and Mike played all through uni. When Yuugi Moto came onto the scene, that was the heyday of the game. But I hear it's still pretty popular nowadays."

Sherlock cringed internally at John's questionable pronunciation of Mutou's name. "Perfect, another reason not to take the case."

John went still above him. When he spoke again, it was in that deceptively even tone that really meant he was anything but okay. "You're not going to help her then."

Sherlock sighed. Predictable. Of course, John was of the opinion that Sherlock would (should) take the case. The reasons were laid before him like a well-rehearsed script. One, Sherlock presently had no other cases— Lestrade still refused to return his calls out of a mix of concern about scrutiny from above and out of anger at Sherlock himself. Both would eventually pass. Two, Rebecca was family. She was young, vulnerable, and had directly come to him for help. It would be heartless to turn her away.

And there had been warm familial feelings between them back in the day, back before she made the choice to abandon him and Mummy for a failed academic and a deck of cards.

But these cases were always rife with popular culture that Sherlock had long deleted and mired in a network of human connections informed by rivalry, jealousy, and other petty emotions. So messy and almost never worth the effort needed to sift through all the necessary data.

"I loathe these sorts of cases, John,” he whined. “People of minor renown like Mutou are always looking to capitalize on their minuscule fame. He'll probably turn up in another few days alive and none the worse for wear. If not, I hope he at least has the decency of being murdered in an interesting manner."

John gave no immediate reaction to his words.

Sherlock turned his attention to the food he had been handed, sniffed, and scrunched his nose in displeasure. The mixture of spices were off. "This isn't a ten, it's a seven at best."

John pulled away with a rigid military cadence and started toward the kitchen. "You can order your own damn food next time."

"It's not that hard to order in Hindi. All you had to say—"

Sherlock was cut off by a crash from the kitchen. The plate jostled in his grip, spattering specks of curry all over the monitor. His heartbeat hammered away in his ear even after he had deciphered the source of the noise (aluminum pan banging against the lino floor: thrown, not fallen). John's harsh staccato breathing cut through the stillness of the flat.

"John—"

"No, Sherlock," came the biting response from the other room. "Just. Be. Quiet."

Knowing that it would only set John off again, Sherlock clamped down on the protest sitting right at the tip of his tongue. He balanced the vindaloo precariously on top of a book pile at his feet, followed by the laptop on another neighboring stack. Another few quick sidesteps around the various derelict littering the floor and he was standing at the threshold of the kitchen, watching John's hunched back as he wiped up the fallen box of carryout. John was angry, that much was evident. Best to tackle the source, rather than to dilly-dally with the details.

"You think I should take her case."

The repetitive, circular cleaning motions stalled briefly as John sucked in a large lungful of air and snapped, "Yes, I tend to think that if your sixteen-year-old cousin comes to you for help, you help her. Fancy that."

“Rebecca’s more than twenty.”

“Not the point!”

Sherlock sighed heavily. "Mutou has been missing for less than two days and there’s no proof of foul play. Being an unfamiliar city, he could have very well just gotten lost. Maybe he doesn’t want to be found. Rebecca is simply overreacting." He had nearly forgotten how tedious it was to walk John through every stage of his reasoning. "Mutou also has a history of wandering off and reappearing some time later. How much trouble can a man who plays children's card games for a living get into?"

After John mopped up the last of the mess, he angrily flung the wad of paper towel into the bin. "That's not the point, Sherlock. And I think you know that, but feel free be stubborn about it. I'm going to bed." Without looking back, John exited through the kitchen door.

Sherlock couldn’t erase the image of how his friend's shoulders slumped as he mounted the stairs. Buried underneath John’s anger was a resignation that made Sherlock's heart clench uncomfortably. John used to fight him on matters like this. He used to lobby for the cases he saw as necessary.

But that was then (three long years of separation and deceit and solitude ago), and this was now.

He sank back into his armchair, listening to the soft tread of John's footsteps pacing his bedroom, the squeak of a mattress as weight settled on top of it, and finally silence. He drew a rumpled photograph from his housecoat pocket. Rebecca had slipped it to him on her way out. Recently taken within the last year— the subjects depicted included Rebecca and Mutou front and center in a crowd of other young adults.

Sherlock pinned the photo to the center of the wall with a piece of tape. He momentarily considered using something sharp, but Rebecca wouldn't appreciate it. It wasn't a candid shot, but the body language displayed was comfortable and intimate. (Then again, Rebecca had always been a photogenic child, equally happy on and off-camera.) It also wasn't the cleanest of shots— there were far more professional photos of Mutou floating around the internet. But its sentimental value, in the crinkled edges and the corners worn by constant handling, was beyond measure.

After resettling the computer on his lap, he clicked away from Rebecca's page to Yuugi Mutou's.

-x-x-x-

His skin crawled and itched under the weight of an unseen gaze. John pulled the comforter tighter around his body and waited for the vestiges of his not so peaceful dreams and almost nightmares to fade away. But the feeling didn't go away as he wiped the crumbs of sleep from his eyes. Sneaking out one hand from under the covers, he groped around for his mobile. A flash of the screen awash in early morning light informed him that it was only half past six.

John threw off the sheets, sat up, and then yelped in surprise. Sherlock, fully dressed in a suit for the first time all week, sat perched on the edge of the open window with John's laptop balanced on his knees. But he wasn't paying attention to whatever was on the screen— his pale eyes transfixed on John himself.

"Ah, good, you're finally awake." Sherlock declared as he shut the laptop and stood.

He swallowed around the lump and croaked, "What the hell are you doing, Sherlock?"

Sherlock threw him a look that said to keep up, before he marched over to the wardrobe. "I thought that was fairly obvious. It's not like I've never done so in the past."

It was true. In the past, Sherlock had waited for him to wake up like so on multiple occasions. John always counted himself as lucky that his flatmate waited, given the alternative of unpleasant wake-up calls. But that seemed like forever ago, and it wasn't the sort of thing John anticipated anymore.

"How long have you been in my room?"

"Since half past five." Sherlock threw open the bureau doors and began rifling through its contents. "Now tell me what you know about Seto Kaiba?"

John sighed. "And you couldn't have just Googled it?"

"John, indulge me."

He flopped back down onto his bed and stared up at his ceiling. "Fine, he's the CEO of the Kaiba Corporation, which is a licensed manufacturer of third-party Duel Monsters accessories, namely the Duel Disk. He's supposed to be some kid genius that's been heading up the company since he was fifteen and is the inventor of the Solid Vision technology that makes holographic projections possible. He's a duelist himself, and used to be ranked number one many years ago before Yuugi defeated him. He also owns the only three copies of the Blue Eyes White Dragon card in existence. Rumors are that's he's equally ruthless on and off the playing field."

"You forgot to mention that he considered Yuugi Mutou as his chief rival for many years. He's still regarded as one of the top three in the world, but I doubt that's good enough for someone as competitive as Seto Kaiba. Given their rather public and contentious rivalry, don't you find it curious that he signed Yuugi as his company spokesman? And as luck or coincidence would have it, he's also currently in London for business." Sherlock made a small triumphant noise as he pulled something out of the closet.

"Wait, you think Seto Kaiba had something to do with Yuugi's disappearance?" John grew more and more curious about what Sherlock was doing. When he finally tried to sit up, a plastic-wrapped load flew into his chest.

It was John's best suit.

"What's this for?"

Purposely averting his gaze, Sherlock rocked back and forth on his heels as he scanned the walls of the room. "I have reached the limit of what data I can gather through the internet. Thus, I've made us an appointment to meet with Seto Kaiba at precisely 9:30 this morning."

"Wait, wait! This means you're helping Rebecca then?"

Sherlock continued to avoid his gaze as he often did when uncertain. "Of course. She may be insufferable now— a common enough teenage affliction— but she's still a thousand times better than Mycroft. Now hurry up and get dressed."

John beamed— the pit of his stomach warm with a rush of old affections resurfacing. Sherlock made no move to leave the room though, and John quirked his eyebrow at his flatmate while pulling off the plastic covering. The detective only seemed to get the message after he rustled the bag some more. "I'll be waiting downstairs."

Knowing that Sherlock's patience would only last so long, John got clean and dressed in record time. The thought of Sherlock leaving him behind and ultimately forgetting about him left a sick feeling in his gut. He entered the living room and was immediately greeted by the one wall blanketed with internet printouts like a second layer of wallpapering— tangible proof that Sherlock had stayed up all night working Rebecca's case.

Sherlock circled him, eyeing up and down the length of his body. His sigh, one of reluctant acceptance, informed John that he had met only the bare minimal criteria for approval. "It'll have to do. Let's hope he doesn't mistaken you for a grammar school geography teacher. When was the last time you wore this suit?"

"At your funeral," he replied without thinking.

Sherlock snapped his back straight and turned away. "We should get going then."

They left the building through Mrs. Hudson's backdoor to avoid any lingering paparazzi haunting Speedy's and their front stoop. The cab dropped them off in front of a tall but otherwise unremarkable building in Canary Wharf. The sterile lobby was a far-cry from Kaiba Corporation's headquarters in Japan with its giant Blue Eyes White Dragon fountain in the lobby and high glass ceilings. KaibaCorp was merely one of the many companies listed on the building directory.

Something occurred to John on their way up to fortieth floor. "Mister Kaiba must be a very busy man. How'd you get an appointment on such short notice anyway?"

"It was a simple matter of deducing his secretary's password and granting myself one."

John hid his snicker behind one hand. "That easy to guess, was it?"

"Extremely." The corners of Sherlock's lips quirked upwards.

When they arrived at Kaiba's executive suite, the harried secretary, a local man whose accent still bore some trace of the Midlands, led them in, announced them as Misters Mycroft Holmes and John Watson from the mayor's office, and immediately turned his heels and fled. It left them all in an awkward spot with Seto Kaiba seated behind his enormous desk and half-hidden behind a computer monitor, while John and Sherlock lingered inside the doorway. There were no chairs on the other side of Kaiba's desk like in a typical office. Instead, a large L-shaped couch faced away from the desk. And other than a few promotional posters of Kaiba Corp sponsored events, the walls were bare of decoration.

"You have exactly fifteen minutes." Seto Kaiba declared as he stood and crossed his arms over his chest. His English, with the lightest accent, sounded far closer to America Midwestern broadcast standard than to anything British. But he made no attempts to extend to them the courtesy of a Japanese bow or an enthused American handshake.

John was somewhat dismayed to see that at twenty-nine, Kaiba still looked much like he did at the age of sixteen— which really wasn't fair considering how much John had aged in that same span. In lieu of his more flamboyant outfits from adolescence, he wore an impeccable white suit accented by an ice-blue dress shirt and a darker necktie. Proper looking, yet still unique enough to easily stand out in a crowd.

Sherlock straightened his posture (as if it should have been even physically possible) and approached the desk with a gait that screamed Mycroft. John cringed softly to himself and followed a few steps behind. "The mayor wishes to thank you for hosting your annual Battle City tournament in our fine city this year. Hanover's loss is certainly London's gain."

Kaiba said nothing further as he openly scrutinized Sherlock, who remained unperturbed as usual.

Sherlock continued, "I trust that all your preparations are in order. Do not hesitate to let us know if you need anything, our office is here to help."

Kaiba sighed, leaned forward, and planted both hands on his desk. The motion did nothing to diminish his larger-than-life presence. "Enough bullshit, you're here to investigate Yuugi's disappearance."

It was always amazing to watch Sherlock shed his disguises like it was last season's fashion. John let out a rush of air when Sherlock's shoulders rolled back and the creepy facsimile of his older brother evaporated. "What gave it away? Was it John? He's not a very good liar."

"I lie just fine!" He snapped without thinking. "And I didn't even say anything yet!"

"You didn't have to, just your body language alone—"

Kaiba muttered something disparaging sounding in Japanese and cleared his throat to cut Sherlock off. "My brother was a big fan of your blog, Mr. Watson," he reached over and swiveled his computer monitor around to show them a picture of them on the Guardian's website. "You were also in the papers this morning. Otherwise, it might have taken me longer to realize it. But no, I had nothing to do with Yuugi's disappearance."

"How did you know Mister Mutou's missing?" John asked.

"I tend to notice when one of the top competitors falls off the map a day or two before a major tournament." Kaiba smiled humorlessly, like John was an idiot for even asking in the first place.

John would be damned if he let himself be intimidated by someone almost a decade his junior. "Did you report him missing to the police then?"

"No, he didn't," Sherlock said as he folded his arms over his chest. "But he did contact Rebecca after he failed to locate Mutou."

"Wait, your cousin Rebecca?"

"I'm told that all of the top Duel Monster players run in the same circles. You'd hope she might have better luck locating him when your resources failed you, but then she turned to me."

"And now here you are wasting my time," Kaiba sighed heavily. "Adrian can give you my calendar from last week, but I have the feeling you've already seen it. I arrived in London last night. I can provide you with the necessary alibis if you need. I'd advise you to pursue other avenues of investigation, Mister Holmes."

Sherlock quirked an arrogant eyebrow and asked, "And I'm supposed to take your word for it? You are a man of impressive means. You could have easily hired someone to take care of your rival."

"Yuugi was never my rival, and I wish him no ill." Kaiba fell back into his plush, leather chair and crossed his legs as he leaned back. He certainly didn't seem the least bit worried about the accusations. And if his current expression was to be believed— he found them downright boring.

Sherlock didn't relent though, "I've done my research, Mister Kaiba. On multiple occasions, you attempted to hire Mister Mutou as a spokesman for your company and he's turned your offer down each time until two months ago. Since then, you've made a last minute change by moving your company's most highly anticipated event of the year from Hanover to London, where he proceeds to vanish into thin air. Even you must admit these circumstances are not in favor of your innocence."

"It's none of your business, but I can see you won't leave me alone to work until you find the answers you want. Yes, I have been trying for many years to hire Yuugi. Bottom line is he's good for my business."

Sherlock quirked his head . "It's because he's well-received by almost every demographic of your consumer base. Compared to you, he's more approachable."

"So my marketing department keeps telling me." Kaiba smiled sharply.

"They also claim that you're seen as too intimidating, so that goes to show how little they really understand. But we both know that's not the real reason, some of your employees might be scared of you but not your consumer base. The arrogance and flamboyance that once endeared you to your fellow duelists in your teens are no longer an asset now in your twenties. Instead, you’re seen as self-aggrandizing."

Kaiba quirked his head to the side. "So why would I want to hurt my own business by hurting Yuugi?"

Sherlock countered with, "Why move the tournament at all? You burned a lot of bridges in Hanover by doing so."

Kaiba waved a hand dismissively. "Germany has been firmly in von Schroeder hands for the last decade. I stood to gain much more by moving the tournament. Since you're the genius detective, you can figure it out on your own. Now if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I have an extremely busy day." He reached over to the phone to summon his secretary, "Adrian, please show Misters Holmes and Watson out, and move back my ten AM meeting."

Sherlock continued to scrutinize the young CEO, but John couldn't say what he was seeing or what he was looking for. When the ever-nervous Adrian appeared, Sherlock turned and started to walk away, leaving John fumbling to retrieve an ancient business card yellowed with age.

John swallowed before he said his bit. This was why he was here— to fill in the gaps of Sherlock's knowledge. "Yuugi Mutou always seemed to have the utmost respect for you, and I'm sure you don't want anything bad to happen to him either. So if you think of anything that can help, please don't hesitate to contact us."

Kaiba's expression remained unchanged, haughty and cold. John sighed and gingerly placed the card on the tabletop. It was still worth a try.

But as Kaiba redirected his attention back to his computer screen, he said, "Adrian, set them up in one of the conference rooms and give them whatever they need— within reason."

Adrian nodded frantically and started herding them out of the office.

Sherlock paused in the doorway and said, "Mutou asked you for a favor, he asked you to move the tournament to London. In return, he signed a contract with your company. Do you know why that was?"

"I didn't ask. Yuugi and I have an understanding now," A sardonic grin flashed across his lips. "A mutual respect even, but we are not friends. What he chose not to share, I choose not to pry into. My life is far less complicated that way."

-x-x-x-

"Do you believe him?" John asked in the cab after they finally left the building more than an hour later. They dug through all of Mutou's travel expenses and the details of his work since he became a spokesperson for the company. There was nothing out of the ordinary there. Mutou was diligent in completing his job duties, made every appearance with grace and generated few complaints, and was well compensated (but not too well compensated) for his work. There was no evidence he was in any financial trouble, nor was he trying to cheat or embezzle Kaiba's company.

Except something about Mutou's travel itinerary from Japan to London bothered him.

Sherlock blinked and looked up from his phone. John's mouth was moving. Noise was coming out of it.

"Hm?"

John sighed with aggravation. So he must have been talking for a while before Sherlock noticed. "Seto Kaiba— do you believe him when he said he had nothing to do with Yuugi Mutou's disappearance?"

His entire body was swiveled toward Sherlock, tense with curiosity and attention. He was eager to hear Sherlock's thoughts for once. Sherlock took a second to relish the moment— cocooning him like a well-loved blanket. Yes, this case was exactly what he needed to earn John's regard again. The only question was would it still be there once the case was over. Ultimately, the answer might depend on whether they found Mutou dead or alive.

"Kaiba wasn't lying. It's unlikely that he was directly involved in Mutou's disappearance. I had suspected that was the case, but the meeting was the best way to confirm my hypothesis and gather more data. Mutou has no shortage of enemies though, and almost all of them are in London this week." Sherlock loosened the necktie he had put on earlier, yanked it off, and stuffed it into a pocket.

“I don’t understand why they didn’t go to the police. Why come to you first?”

Sherlock turned to contemplate the pedestrians outside the window. After several moments, he concluded, "I was not their first choice. They’re desperate with this tournament starting tomorrow. But they won't go to the police because either they've been told not to or because they don't trust the police. They could have also appealed to the public for help, Mutou is still a person of some note. For Kaiba, it’s motivated in part by financial concerns, and he doesn’t want news of Mutou’s disappearance adversely affecting his company. Many people will jump to the conclusion that he is somehow at fault. Rebecca has never been very trusting of authority figures, but it’s more than that. No, they're not nearly as clueless as they pretend to be."

"What do you mean?"

"According to online reports from his fans, Mutou has been sighted in and around London for the last week. Now Mutou is noted for traveling with a specific entourage; none of whom are in the city yet. And he didn't come early for work purposes; there have been no Kaiba Corporation functions that required his appearance until the tournament itself."

"He could have taken a holiday by himself," John suggested.

"Perhaps, but it leaves a large gap of time that needs to be accounted for. We need to find out if and how his week here relates to his disappearance."

"Guess we're going to his hotel then."

A large smile split across Sherlock's face. "Yes, but first we have to stop off at Barts."

John eyed him suspiciously. "We don't have any dead bodies to examine," he paused and then asked, "Do we?"

"No, we’re picking up something."

-x-x-x-

The lunchtime crowds around Trafalgar Square were always worse during the summer season. The lobby of the Trafalgar Hotel was no different, swarming with tourists both checking out and those waiting to check in. As they entered, John spotted no less than a dozen people hanging around with Duel Disks on their arms. He thought he might even recognize a few familiar faces in the crowd, but it had been many years since he last paid much attention to the Duel Monsters scene.

Sherlock strode purposely through the throng of people deeper into the hotel building. Several people stared after him with perplexed looks before shaking their heads and turning away again. They headed straight to the second floor, past a bunch of smaller meeting room before coming to an abrupt stop in front of double doors— one open and the other still closed with a brass label saying "stateroom." A table was set up next to the doors with a bored-looking woman and her laptop.

Her expression never changed as she glanced up and asked, "Name?"

Sherlock pointed at him before answering in a snappish tone, "John Watson."

Her fingernails clanged loudly against her keyboard as she typed. Then she spun the screen around and gestured at John, "Read the disclaimer, then sign at the bottom."

The electronic document appeared to be several pages of legalese. John's eyes started to cross mid-way through the first sentence. He looked over at Sherlock, whose gaze was sweeping over the people gathered beyond the door and feet tapping impatiently. Hoping he was not wrong to just trust his friend, John quickly scrolled to the bottom of the page and signed his name with his finger. Before he could even lift his fingertip off the screen, the woman snatched the machine back.

"Come along, John. They're about to start." Sherlock took him by the elbow and quickly steered him inside before he could ask any questions.

The registration lady shut the door after them as soon as they crossed over the threshold. Inside the door, mostly teenagers and university-age students milled about in the space between two rows of heavy-looking glasstop tables.

"Sherlock, what are we doing here?"

Sherlock shushed him and pointed to the front of the room where a woman with a microphone in hand approached the small stage.

"Good afternoon everyone, and welcome!" she beamed at the crowd and received a few whoops in return. "Some of you already know me, but I'm Mimi, your local Pro League judge for central London. Today's tournament will be your last chance to collect enough points to qualify for tomorrow's Battle City, sponsored by none other than the Kaiba Corporation."

More cheers erupted from the audience.

"That's right, so the competition will be fierce today. Due to space restrictions here, we will not be able to accommodate Duel Disk play. Instead, we will be playing on a fleet of Battle Surfaces generously provided by the von Schroeder company." The lights dimmed and all at once, the tables lit up with a hologram of a rotating pink rose. "The format is a modified elimination bracket. Duelists must win two out of three duels at each of the lower two tiers before they proceed to the next bracket. These are your first round match-ups." Mimi waved a hand at the bracket now projected behind her. "Duelists, please report to your assigned tables. The first match will begin in two minutes. Good luck!"

John started skimming down the list of names, wondering who they were there to watch. He froze half-way down at the sight of his name. "Sherlock," he hissed. "Please tell me you didn’t enter me into the tournament."

In response, Sherlock grabbed his hands and deposited two items onto his open palm. One was a deck box containing Duel Monster cards, and the other was a thick plastic card with only a string of numbers etched across its translucent surface.

"You did not do this to me. When did you even have time to do this?" John moaned.

"This morning. I had to ask Kaiba's secretary to grandfather in your entry. The deadline was earlier this week." Sherlock stated a-matter-a-factly.

"Why me?"

"You said you used to play."

"Did you forget the part where I also said I wasn't very good? I don't even know what cards are in here!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I don't expect you to win, John. Come on, your opponent is waiting at table four. We shouldn't keep them waiting."

According to the bracket, John's opponent was someone called "Bomber Joe," who turned out to be a university-aged man wearing an over-sized surplus military jacket. They shook hands before taking a seat across from each other. John looked to Sherlock for guidance, but his partner was already busy deducing the rest of the duelists. Sighing, John focused on Joe instead, copying his opponent as they went through the steps of setting up the duel: inserting their clear plastic cards into a slot under the lip of the table, shuffling their decks, cutting each other's deck, and drawing an opening hand of six cards. They flipped a virtual coin to determine who would go first.

He breathed a sigh of relief when his opponent called heads and won the first move.

As Joe studied the cards he had drawn, it gave John a few moments to try and recall the basics of the game. There were three basic types of cards: monsters, spells, and traps. For monsters, it was further divided between normal monsters with a more yellow background and effect monsters, indicated by a more orange backdrop and far more tiny text to read. John was sure there were also different types of spells, but he could not remember what the different kinds were off the top of his head. But he was fairly confident that he had to set trap cards before he could use them. On the bright side, at least they were kind enough to label the monster and magic/trap zones on the holographic playing field.

Who was he kidding? John was in way over his head.

"A little help," he hissed at his friend. Sherlock must have already memorized everything there was to know about the game.

"I can't, John. That would be cheating." Sherlock replied smugly before waltzing away and abandoning John to his plight.

Across the table, Joe drew a card from his deck and asked with trepidation, "You do know how to play, right?"

John smiled weakly. "Yes, yes, of course, just needed a mo."

"Uh huh." His opponent replied skeptically and proceeded to trounce John in just five turns. From across the dueling field, Joe's _Mecha Phantom Beast Sabre Hawk_ revved, taking flight over the space separating the two players' card zones, and attacked the last remaining monster on John's side. The little hologram of John's _Minerva, Lightsworn Maiden_  shattered into shards of prismatic light that evaporated along with the last of his lifepoints. The card zones and remaining holograms blinked out of existence, replaced with a marquee pronouncing "Bomber Joe" as the winner of the duel.

In the little stats window next to his deck, John winced as his already barely existent ranking fell even further.

His only comfort was that someone else lost in three turns just two tables away. Still he wasn't eliminated yet— not until his next opponent wiped the floor with him.

Once John realized he was playing with Mike Stamford's old Lightsworn deck, he started playing marginally better. Every now and then, he would look up from his hand to find his partner shamming through a conversation with someone— sometimes another duelist and one time with Mimi the judge. John won his second match on account of drawing nearly all the cards he needed to set up his combo in his opening hand, while his opponent floundered and spent most of the game searching her deck for the cards she needed.

He didn't win his third match though. He held out for eight turns before his fourteen-year-old opponent finished him off with a high-pitched squeal. She flushed red with excitement as she shook his hand after the match, and John couldn't find it within himself to hold anything against her for beating him. She deserved it far more than he would have, and he had been two turns away from decking himself out. A quick glance at the match-up screen, where a red line ran straight through the middle of his name, confirmed he was no longer in the running.

He pocketed Mike's deck and searched around the room for Sherlock. But the taller man was nowhere to be seen. John's pulse raced as he did a circuit around the room, trying to pinpoint exactly when he had lost track of Sherlock. It had been somewhere between him drawing Judgement Dragon and her activating Mirror Force, which was probably about fifteen minutes ago.

Another brief moment of panic passed before it occurred to him to check his mobile. On it, he found a text message waiting.

> _Room 235._  
>  _SH_

-x-x-x-

It took two passes before the card reader beeped and granted Sherlock access to room 235. Finding out which room Mutou was staying in required almost no detective work on his part: the Kaiba Corporation had done the booking on Mutou's behalf. The key card he had lifted off one of the oblivious duelists playing spectator at the tournament downstairs, and the hotel employee at the front desk had been all too happy to reprogram the card with a bit of flirtation.

Upon entering, Sherlock closed the door gently and took a deep breath. The room, a suite with a foldout couch and another television in the other room, was lit by afternoon sunlight filtered through the gauzy curtains. Housekeeping had come through at some point (bed neatly made, emptied rubbish bins, fresh towels on the bathroom rack, and restocked toiletries on the sink).

He fired off a text to John before beginning his search. Sherlock hauled out the two rolling suitcases half-hidden under the bed and rifled through the contents. Most of Mutou's clothing was still stowed inside, with one suitcase apparently partitioned for the dirty laundry. Under a pair of impossibly skinny jeans was a small computer bag and two hand-held gaming systems. He put the computer bag aside for later. In a cloth pouch, Sherlock found a small trove of jewelry in the form of thick leather bracelets and heavy chain necklaces.

Mutou's fashion sense was certainly unique.

Sherlock abandoned the suitcases and turned his attention to turning out every available drawer in the suite. Most in the bedroom were empty. Not surprising as Mutou didn't seem the sort of person to completely unpack and inhabit a hotel room. There was a pad of hotel stationery near the phone and when Sherlock peered closely, he could make out indentations left over from writing. Lightly shading the area with the provided pencil revealed a partial address written in shaky English lettering.

He pocketed the paper and moved onto the connected room, which was completely untouched. He found none of Mutou's personal belongings here. Other than the locked safe in the cupboard, there was no other indication that Mutou even set foot in the room. He crouched down to examine the digital keypad, noting the many fingerprint smudges dusting the touchscreen. Deducing the passcode shouldn't be too hard, and he had an unlimited number of guesses.

Harsh and angry beeping reprimanded him on his first three attempts. On the fourth try, his finger hovered just over the last digit when he heard a quiet click. It wasn't the safe, he realized, but the room door. Sherlock stood swiftly and angled himself behind the adjoining suite door. Someone had used a key to unlock the door. It wasn't John, who would have knocked or called for Sherlock or rang the bell, and it wasn't hotel staff as they also needed to announce themselves ahead of time. But he couldn’t get a good look at the new arrival from this angle. Just in case, Sherlock grabbed the flower vase off the end table.

The floor creaked as the new arrival crossed the other room— his footsteps too heavy to be Mutou. He stopped abruptly in the center of the room, no doubt taking in the scene of Sherlock's investigation. Sherlock steeled himself. John should be arriving any minute now to provide backup (he really wasn't that good at the game). Sherlock just needed to make sure their potential lead didn't get away in the meanwhile.

Brandishing the vase, he flew out from behind the door with a cry. His opponent reacted immediately (trained), bringing both arms up to brace against Sherlock's weapon. The vase shattered on contact with a crunch. The man growled, but the sound was muffled by the latex mask of a jackal he wore over his head. That was not a detail Sherlock had expected, and his momentary surprise gave his opponent the upper hand.

Sherlock grunted, the wind knocked out of his chest, as jackal-head barreled forward and grappled him to the ground. They fell to the carpet in a tangle of flailing limbs. Even before factoring the five stones his opponent had on him, Sherlock'd already lost— close-contact combat was not his forte. He'd rather engage from a distance, preferably with John and his gun at his back.

Jackal-head's arms closed around Sherlock's neck, an elbow pressed up against his windpipe and threatened to cut off his air supply. Sherlock thrust his head back in an aborted head butt, but the hold around his throat tightened.

"Tell whoever sent you that if we don't see Osiris at tomorrow's tournament, we can't guarantee Yuugi Mutou's safety. Now nod if you understand."

Sherlock's bangs flopped over his eyes as he tried to nod.

"Good, now—"

Three raps against the front door interrupted jackal-head before he could finish.

"Sherlock?" John called from the hallway.

The pressure around Sherlock's throat increased, and the edges of his vision started to darken.

"Don't forget what I said." Jackal-head grunted and released him. Sherlock barely sucked in a gasp when a fist slugged him across the cheeks. Vision now swimming, he crashed to the floor with a mighty bang. The blow staggered him, but it wasn't enough to knock him out cold.

"SHERLOCK?" John's cry had increased in volume and urgency.

The blurry shape that was jackal-head bolted to the door. Sherlock caught only a glimpse of his partner through the crack in the door before it closed again. He coughed and pushed himself up on his knees, straining to hear the fight now taking place in the hallway.

"John!" His hoarse voice gave out from shouting. "No!"

Sherlock shook his head furiously in an attempt to clear it. He staggered out of the room and his heart nearly stopped at the sight of John writhing on the floor. Out of the corner of his eyes, the last flutters of jackal-head were fleeing down the hall. He wanted to give chase, but—

John.

The blond man groaned before looking up. "I'm fine."

Frozen, Sherlock continued to stare at the fresh bruise starting to bloom over his friend's right eye.

"Go!" John's order finally snapped him out of his daze.

Halfway down the hall, Sherlock risked one last glance back— relieved to see John picking himself off the floor— and took off in pursuit of their attacker. The door to the emergency stairwell fell close as he rounded the next corner. He threw his entire body through the heavy door and down three flights of steps to the ground floor. He exited right off the hotel lobby, still swarming with duelists and tourists. Sherlock pushed through a group of teenagers, earning the ire of the doorman as he burst out onto Trafalgar Square.

There were people everywhere. He paced back and forth in front of the hotel, scanning the crowd for burly 6’1” men and jackal-headed masks. He didn't find the man. But he did fish out the mask out of a rubbish bin just a few meters away from the entrance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a blue moon, darkmus made a comment about bored geniuses and how Rebecca would fit in as a Holmes. (Not that I should write it or anything... WELL, I AM! Hope you're happy.) It gave birth to this small plotbunny, which may or may not be anything like what she envisioned. But that was over a year ago and I've been writing and rewriting this first part since. So it's time to see if I can pull off a non-crack crossover between BBC Sherlock and Yu-Gi-Oh!
> 
> Characters' current age (I'm playing it pretty fast and loose here, sorry):   
> 
> 
> * Rebecca: 23
>   
> 
> * Sherlock: 33
>   
> 
> * John: 34
>   
> 
> * Yuugi, Kaiba, Anzu, Jounouchi, Honda, Bakura, etc: 29
> 
> In this fic, Rebecca primarily lived with the Holmes between the ages of 3 (when her parents died in an accident) and 6. Her grandfather, Professor Arthur Hopkins, was still a presence in her life. But he couldn't be her primary caregiver because he was constantly overseas for work. After he met resistance over some of his more outlandish-sounding theories, he put his career temporarily on-hold and moved Rebecca to California with him so he could concentrate on raising her.


	2. Part Two

The café was situated a few blocks from the last tube station Yuugi had emerged from before he vanished. The coffee was serviceable, and the shade only offered minimal protection from the summer sun. But most importantly, the outdoor seating offered an unimpeded view of the sky and thus, an excellent uplink with the KaibaCorp satellite.

Raw and red, Rebecca's shoulders took the brunt of the sun's assault, while the tension in her lower back was further exacerbated by hours of hunching over her laptop. She stretched her arms up and surreptitiously checked on her tail out of the corner of her eyes.

The tail she had picked up outside of her hotel earlier this morning was seated two tables away and appeared entirely focused on the smartphone in her manicured hands. She wasn't convinced her stalker had anything to do with Yuugi's disappearance, but Kaiba's security people were never this subtle.

Her laptop had spent the better part of the morning running her custom face-recognition algorithm on CCTV footage taken from nearby cameras. It may be buggy and occasionally spitting out false hits, but not too terrible given she'd just programmed it from scratch yesterday.

Metal legs suddenly scrapped against cement— the sound was ear-wrenching. Someone was trying to share her table. Whatever rebuff she'd prepared died on her tongue as soon as she glanced up. Out of the corner of her eyes, she could see her would-be stalker had already vacated her post— gone without a trace.

"If Sherlock was so pressed to have a case, I could have readily supplied one." Mycroft Holmes announced as he sank into the chair across from her.

"Phone lady was one of yours then?" She scowled.

"You sound disappointed." He said as one hand swept the crumbs from her croissant off the tabletop.

"Actually, yes. Incredibly so."

Folding his hands together, he continued, "You've done well for yourself, Rebecca: entered university at the age of eleven, graduated top of your class, and then received a doctorate from the number one school in your field. Mummy is quite proud of your accomplishments."

In her head, an alternative conversation— the sort that sociable people without mighty sticks up their asses engaged in— was taking place.

_Oh, how are you, Rebecca?_

_Long time no see, Mycroft._

_Wow, you've grown up._

_And you've lost weight._

Oh well, there was no point in being bitter about it. Mycroft had always regarded her as an intruder in his perfectly ordered world. And given his stiff posture and distant politeness, that was plainly still the case.

The smile stretched his lips so thin that she thought they might rip at the seams. "It's good to see that your more trivial pursuits didn't damage your prospects."

She took it back. She was so tired of the Holmes brothers constantly putting her down. If Mycroft was going to be an enormous asshole about it, Rebecca was going to respond in kind. "Yeah, won't you look at that? People can have both friends and hobbies, and not end up as abject losers."

Mycroft frowned. It gave his face that funny pinched look that reminded Rebecca of constipation. She choked down a batch of giggles, causing his glare to intensify.

"Be that as it may," he cleared his throat and straightened his back (as if that was anymore possible). "I wish to ensure there's no reason to have you arrested," he looked pointedly down at her laptop. "Or to have your computer confiscated."

Alarmed, she grabbed the machine, cradled it close to her bosom, and prepared to bolt. She might not get very far, but she wasn't going down without a fight. "You can't! I need this to find Yuugi!"

"And this friend of yours," he sneered. "He's worth breaking the law for?"

"Yes." How could she make him understand how important Yuugi was to her? But to a lot of other people as well? "Like you've probably done for Sherlock loads of time."

"Sherlock is family." He spoke like she was six years old again.

Refusing to be cowed, she raised her head high. "Yuugi's my family too. I'm not giving up on him."

When the laptop gave a sudden high-pitched beep, she clutched it closer. Her program must be done processing the second batch of footage she had fed it. Keeping one eye on her cousin, she peeked at the results window. The first two were obviously false hits from the start, but the last one that was time-stamped two afternoons ago lodged her heart in her throat.

The video was in color, so it was hard to miss Yuugi's hair as he wandered into view of the camera. He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, just under the camera to check a piece of paper he was holding. As his attention was elsewhere, a black van came barreling onto the scene and stopped just short of hitting him as it jumped the curb. Four people in masks (a jackal, an ibis, a lion, and an alligator) popped out of the back of the vehicle, grabbed Yuugi, and pulled a hood over his head before pulling him into the van. They fled as suddenly as they had appeared.

Feeling a bit light-headed now, she rewound the footage and watched it another time through. The camera sat on a corner only several blocks from where she currently was. She slammed the cover down and shot up out of her seat.

Mycroft watched her silently with an expression she didn't have time to decipher. He could try to stop her all he liked, but Rebecca Hopkins had never let anyone, even the British government, stand in her way.

"I have to go," she said as she swiftly packed her computer away.

Mycroft nodded, even if it was only the slightest tilt of his head.

As she turned to leave, Mycroft suddenly spoke up again. "My condolences about your grandfather, Rebecca."

The reminder of her grandfather's recent passing caught her by surprise and she almost tripped over her feet. Her grief rubbed her raw and made her feel like her skin was pulled too tight over her skeleton. He just wanted to get the last word in, she told herself. And she refused to lose anyone else so soon— not if she could do anything about it.

The streets raced past in a blur of concrete and brick. Rebecca couldn't remember the last time she had run so hard and so fast. Her lungs burned like they were on fire when she finally stopped, propped up against a lamppost to catch her breath. Glancing up at the signs at the intersection, she saw she was almost there. She pushed back the pain and kept going.

The street where Yuugi was taken was residential and relatively quiet. First, she located the camera and used its position to approximate where the van had stopped. Nothing had been left behind— not even tire marks. Desperate, she made several rounds up and down the street in search of any clues.

"Come on, Rebecca, you can do this! You're a goddamn genius. There must be something here!"

But she wasn't a Holmes. All she could see was a quiet street where her friend had been kidnapped some 50 hours ago.

"Fuck!" she shouted and her voice echoed back at her.

Okay, she needed to think this through. The van— she had to track the van that had taken Yuugi. That was the next logical step. But the license plate hadn't been visible in that particular view, so she would have to comb all the local footage for signs of similar vehicle. Worst case scenario, she would have to expand her search to the wider London area. This was where Sherlock's deductions would be useful in narrowing the possibilities.

She dug her cellphone out and dialed Sherlock's number. It rang several times before sending her to voicemail. She hung up and tried a second time, but her call went to voicemail again. When that didn’t work, she called him a final third time without any better success. This time, Rebecca left a terse message demanding her cousin call her back as soon as possible.

She needed to take another look at the surrounding streets before she returned to work on her computer. Determined, she prowled the area in search of anything that could tell her something about what happened. She would come back and canvas door to door if she had to. What was Yuugi even doing in New Ham? It almost seemed as if he was searching for something.

She made one last return trip to the CCTV camera, taking photos of anything that might be relevant with her smartphone. The app was still zoomed in when she turned to take a photo of the building behind the camera. Through the viewfinder, she noticed a particular bit of graffiti on another building next to it. The bright yellow paint stood out among the other colorful tags like a beacon in the night. From a distance, that almost looked like...

Her feet moved automatically, taking her into the alley between the two buildings for a closer look. No, not the Wadjet Eye— but it was the same eye symbol found on every Millennium Item.

Rebecca’s hands shook as she raised her phone to capture an image of the hieroglyphics splattered across the brick wall.

-x-x-x-

Save for the hum of his desktop computer, Kaiba's office was silent at long last. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, soaking in the peace for as long as it would last. Because sooner or later, someone else would come knocking on his door and seeking information about Yuugi.

He sat up at the brisk rap on his door. "Come in," Kaiba called out in English.

Isono bowed upon entering the room. The older man straightened and approached Kaiba's desk without needing to be beckoned. "Seto-sama, you wanted a report on the tournament preparations."

Kaiba waved his hand as an indication for Isono to proceed.

"Almost 90% of duelists have already checked in for tomorrow's tournament. We expect to have 100% by sometime this evening. There was a delay in the construction of the main stage in Victoria Park, but I'm keeping a close eye on the matter and have a crew on standby if the contractors aren't done by this afternoon. Otherwise, all preparations are in place for tomorrow."

Kaiba nodded with approval, "Good." Isono had flown in a week ahead of him to personally oversee the tournament details. Even with everything else that was happening, they were on schedule for the tournament at least.

"Mokuba-sama asked me to pass along a message on his behalf. He regrets he will not be here to support you."

Kaiba smiled softly, mostly to himself. He quickly sobered and asked, "Did you tell him anything about Yuugi?"

"No, Seto-sama, I haven't. You told me not to."

"Keep it that way. Otherwise he'll be on the first plane over here. He needs to focus on his studies."

"He'll be very angry with you afterwards," Isono warned.

That was already a given. In the blink of an eye, it seemed as if his little brother had grown up from a precocious child to a somewhat reckless young man. He blamed that on the others' (but especially Jounouchi's) influence. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Kaiba grumbled.

"One final thing, Yuugi-san's friends— their plane will be landing in an hour."

Kaiba groaned. It was only a matter of time before the tag-alongs stormed his office, demanding some answers. Never mind that he was just as in the dark as they were, having last spoken with Yuugi a week ago. He hadn't even known something was wrong until Rebecca reached out to him last night. But Yuugi's friends rarely let that sort of logic get in the way of their jumping-head-first-without-looking philosophy.

"If they come here, refer them to Rebecca. I really don't want to see them before tomorrow." Out of the corner of his eyes, he spotted the wrinkled business card that John Watson had left behind. He snatched up the card and thrust it in Isono's direction. "Better yet, tell them to go bother this Sherlock Holmes."

"Of course, Seto-sama." Isono traded him for the card with the pile of reports he had brought in. He immediately pocketed the card.

Other than Mokuba and Isono, Kaiba didn't tolerate people hovering over him. Isono knew this, but rarely did he take advantage of it. Kaiba started counting back from 30 in his head. He managed to hit eight before Isono cleared his throat to speak again.

"If I may speak freely, Seto-sama?"

Amused, Kaiba raised an eyebrow at his longtime employee. "Since when have you ever needed my permission to do that?"

Isono smiled wryly, but the expression quickly faded as it was replaced by his usual neutral one. "We've been able to keep this under wraps so far. But people will talk if Yuugi-san doesn't make an appearance at tomorrow's opening ceremony."

"What would you have me do?" He passed a stack of signed documents to Isono. "Delaying the tournament would hardly help matters, and canceling is completely out of the question."

"But it may be for the best to prepare for a worst-case scenario." Isono suggested solemnly.

Kaiba was taken aback by the thought. It didn't necessarily rattle him, but it seemed so foreign. For so many years since they first dueled, Yuugi had been a constant fixture in his life. The idea that Yuugi might no longer be there... It seemed inconceivable.

He pushed the feeling down, covering his discomfort with a small smirk. "Don’t you have any faith in me, Isono? I always have a plan.”

-x-x-x-

When Sherlock demanded to see the hotel's security footage, the manager stonewalled him with a frosty smile. "We'd be happy to comply if you were with the police and have a search warrant."

"A man's life could be at stake!" He slammed his hands down on the countertop. A gasp rippled through the bystanders watching from around the lobby.

Despite a small flinch, the manager remained stalwart. "Sir, I would be happy to call the police if you wish to report an assault. Otherwise, I'm going to insist you calm down." She reached for the phone as she spoke.

John was ready to intervene— it was starting to get out of hand. But as soon as he took a step toward Sherlock, the man straightened and shed his previous indignation like a snake sheds its skin.

"That's won't be necessary. Come along, John." Sherlock twirled and stalked away from the front desk.

John flashed an apologetic smile at the manager, but she glared back with narrowed eyes. He could feel her suspicious gaze burning into his back across the length of the lobby. He followed Sherlock back to room 235, presumably Yuugi Mutou's hotel room. Upon entering, Sherlock threw the jackal mask down on the bed next to the opened suitcases and began digging through the suitcases with renewed vigor.

John stepped around the shards of broken glass littering the carpet to approach the room fridge. With a silent apology to the missing Yuugi, he took the half-empty bottle of soda inside and pressed it again his throbbing eye. "A warning next time would be appreciated," he snarked. "If you happen to be entertaining masked assailants."

Sherlock looked up. "I was similarly caught by surprise. It wasn't as if I was expecting to find him here."

For the first time, John noticed the red mark stripped across the front of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock had sounded kind of raspy when he was talking to the hotel manager. John marched up to the bed and caught the other man's attention by grabbing his arm. "Sit down," he commanded. "And let me take a look."

Without protest for once, Sherlock obeyed. John ran light fingers up and down the length of Sherlock's neck, checking for tenderness or signs of a deeper injury. "Any trouble breathing?"

"No, doctor." Sherlock rolled his eyes, but flinched halfway through when John pressed down on left cricothyroid muscle.

Satisfied with his examination, John stepped back and placed the cold soda bottled back to his black eye. "Fine, but tell me at the first sign of anything wrong." He held Sherlock's gaze until the other man gave a reluctant nod. John picked up the jackal mask with his free hand. After turning it over several times and unable to divine any further clues from it, he asked, "Why do you suppose he wore this in particular? There are more practical options if he just wanted to hide his face."

Sherlock pressed his fingers together and leaned forward, assuming one of his many thinking poses. "Because it's dramatic, John, theatrical. It leaves an impression."

"Did he say anything else?"

"Just—" Sherlock stopped abruptly, eyes flickering over in the direction of the suite's other room.

"What is it?"

But Sherlock provide no answer as he scrambled over the bed and bolted into the other room. Clenching his hand into a tight fist, John forced himself to stay where he was. He'd had enough of blindly following Sherlock around for one day. They were already falling back into old patterns as if nothing had changed.

(But everything _had_ changed.)

If Sherlock was unwilling to acknowledge that, John was in no rush to point it out either. He resumed digging through Yuugi's luggage. Sherlock was unlikely to acknowledge him anytime soon, so John may as well start investigating on his own.

The small computer bag already set aside on top of the bed was the first thing that caught his attention. An iPad, a stylus, and some papers spilled out after he unzipped the bag and turning it over on the bed. He turned on the tablet first, and he sifted through the loose pages while waiting for the device to power up. One sheet was a printout of Yuugi's boarding pass from Japan to England, another was an email printout that John couldn't read, but it was the last page that gave him pause. John wasn't sure why Yuugi was keeping a blurry photo of himself.

The tablet chimed, booting up to the desktop without asking for a password. The apps were labeled in Japanese along with the rest of the OS' dialog. But previous experiences with iPads allowed John to locate the image gallery— Sherlock might be able to make better sense of the rest of its content later. There were a lot of photos stored in the gallery, dating all the way back to Yuugi's teenage years and chronicling his life since through birthdays, holidays, graduations, and dueling tournaments. Many of them featured the same core set of people: Katsuya Jounouchi whom John recognized, a tall brunet with sharp hair, a brunette girl with shoulder-length hair, an androgynous boy with long white hair, and an elderly man who appeared related to Yuugi. Sometimes, the Kaibas (Seto and/or Mokuba) were present in the peripherals. As time went on, others appeared in the albums with increasing frequency: a tall and buxom blonde often hanging off Jounouchi, an Arab family of three, a boy with a long ponytail and too much eyeliner, and Rebecca herself through the ages.

Yuugi himself transformed from a slouching teenager armed with only a sheepish smile to the confident young man always surrounded by friends and family.

Music started playing, breaking John from his reverie. The music stopped by the time he located its source: a mobile fallen under the hotel's desk. At first, he thought it might be the attacker's phone that fell out during the fight; or maybe it was even Yuugi's. The device started vibrating and ringing again in the palm of his hand.

The name of the caller simply read _Becky._

The call rang out for the second time, and "Becky" called for the third time.

"Sherlock," John called. "I think Rebecca's trying to reach you."

"Busy!" Sherlock shouted back.

"You should take it. She's calling for the third time."

"I'm trying to concentrate, John!"

The mobile in his hand fell silent again, with the LED flashing to indicate one lone message waiting in Sherlock's voicemail.

-x-x-x-

Mrs. Hudson's mannerisms reminded Rebecca a lot of Auntie Holmes. Like Sherlock's mom, the landlady was quick with a smile and a tray full of cookies. She still had many fond memories of her beloved auntie, who treated Rebecca like one of her own and forever challenging Rebecca to seek out her limits. She brought the delicate cup of earl grey tea to her lips. Inhaling the citrus scent, her eyes fell closed and she allowed the smell to transport her to a country cottage.

Maybe after everything was sorted, she would go visit Auntie.

The sound of people trampling up the stairs intruded upon her memories of a cozy kitchen always ripe with the smell of baked goods.

Mrs. Hudson placed a hand on Rebecca's knee before speaking, "Oh boys, you're back! Sherlock, why haven't you introduced me to your delightful cousin before? She is such a dear! What on earth happened to you two?!"

The landlady's alarmed gasp forced Rebecca out of her sanctuary. She slowly opened her eyes and looked to the doorway, where Sherlock and John now stood. John's right eye was a swollen and bruised mess. Not that Sherlock seemed to fare all that better with his scrapped check and the fantastic band of bruise blooming across his neck like a choker. It looked if they'd gone several rounds with someone and lost.

"Someone caught us off-guard. It's nothing, really," John said sheepishly.

Mrs. Hudson patted her knee and stood. "Nonsense, I'll get some ice for the both of you from downstairs. God knows what you two are keeping in the freezer."

"No need to fuss, Mrs. Hudson. John is a doctor, he knows how to take care of himself." Sherlock rolled his eyes and stepped around the coffee table.

"Uh, I'll come with you and bring them up," John volunteered. He unloaded his armful of things down by the couch.

"Just as well, my hip is starting to act up again." She smiled fondly down at Rebecca. "I'm sorry to hear about this dreadful business with your friend. Don't you believe a word in those tabloids, Sherlock is the genuine thing. He is the best at what he does. He'll find your friend for you, won't you Sherlock?"

"Of course, Mrs. Hudson," he replied dutifully.

Rebecca lifted the cup back to her lips to hide her smile. Sherlock even talked to Mrs. Hudson in the same tone as he did to his mom.

"Come and visit any time, dear. You're always welcome here. I'll leave you alone to your business."

While John walked Mrs. Hudson downstairs, Sherlock stomped across the room and sunk into his armchair. The sound of something slapping against the metal bar of the chair drew Rebecca's attention. Her gaze landed on the jackal mask in his hand and she couldn't tear her eyes away. The pitter-patter of her heart was matched only by the rhythmic tapping of her feet and fingers. She glanced at her bag where her laptop and the footage on it was burning a figurative hole.

Sherlock brought the mask to rest in his lap and reached for his violin. He cradled the instrument against his chest, strumming a few notes. His attention was completely focused on a spot over the door though— as if Rebecca wasn't even in the room.

Intrigued, Rebecca studied her estranged cousin. She had never seen Sherlock waiting so eagerly for another human being. Puzzles and mysteries, sure— but another person? But just like her, Sherlock had changed and grown over the years. As she glanced around the mess in the flat, it was obvious to her how intertwined their lives had become.

"Why'd you do it?" She clapped her hand to her mouth, not sure how the question had slipped past her defenses.

"Pardon?" Sherlock's full attention was a lot like being hit with the spotlight as you stand alone on-stage— a bit blinding and paralyzing at first.

"Why did you fake your death?" she hesitated before adding, "Seems to me that there were less drastic ways to handle the situation."

"The situation was complicated."

Well, that was a non-answer. Rebecca pushed the subject as she was trained to by the nature of her work. "Complicated? I would have thought you'd enjoy a grand game of cat and mouse with Moriarty."

"Multiple people were in Moriarty's cross-hairs— all to get at me. It was what he wanted. Playing along with his demented plan was the quickest and most effective way to resolve the situation." Sherlock slumped back and grumbled while pointedly not looking at the stairs, "Even if some people don't appreciate the effort on their behalf."

She had a few guesses as to who he might be referring to. This petulance she remembered well too; the two of them shared much in common on that front. She decided to take pity on him. "Have you tried apologizing?"

Sherlock stared back blankly.

She sighed heavily, "You can't blame your friends and family for getting mad at you. Faking your death is generally not a cool thing to do, not to mention illegal."

He rolled his eyes so hard that she thought they might fall right out of their sockets.

"So of course we going to feel a little betrayed. Saying you're sorry is generally a good place to start." She glowered at him. "But try to mean it. You're shit enough at apologies as it is."

They stared silently at one another as the sound of John and Mrs. Hudson exchanging goodbyes echoed up the stair into the flat. When John finally returned with two washcloths holding ice, he lingered in the door for several beats. His gaze bounced uncertainly between her and Sherlock. "Am I interrupting anything?"

"No," Sherlock shifted in his seat— always an indicator of his discomfort. "Let's get to why you're really here, Rebecca."

"You would know if you bothered answering your phone."

"Oh right," John exclaimed and produced Sherlock's mobile phone from his jacket pocket. "I picked it up in the hotel room."

Sherlock took the phone but refused the ice offered in John's other hand. "We were busy working your case."

John took a seat in his own armchair and pressed the melting ice to his black eye. His gaze flitted between Sherlock and Rebecca, unabashed in his curiosity.

Rebecca crossed one leg over the other and straightened in her seat. Glancing back, she looked up at the evidence he'd mounted to the wall so far. "I know. You also went to see Kaiba earlier. I could have told you that he had nothing to do with Yuugi's disappearance. He's one of us."

"Your blind faith in others is reassuring as always," Sherlock sneered.

She bristled at his statement.

"You recognize this." He lifted the mask with the free hand not currently glued to the screen of his cellphone. When she extended a hand forward, Sherlock tossed the mask over, which she then caught.

She lifted the mask aloft and gazed into the empty eye holes. The long ears and muzzle were typical of the jackal depiction of Anubis. Rebecca didn't know much about latex masks, but there was a level of detail that suggested it was custom-made.

"One of Yuugi's kidnappers was wearing a mask just like this," she said.

"You have proof he was taken then?" Sherlock asked.

She nodded and dropped the mask. From inside her messenger bag, she retrieved a slim laptop and placed it on the coffee table. "Yuugi had his cellphone with him at the time of his disappearance. I was able to pull his general location before it was turned off. Yuugi was in and around East Ham on the day of his disappearance. I pulled CCTV footage from the surrounding area—"

"Wait, wait, how'd you get the video?" John asked.

She tapped her fingers several times before replying diplomatically, "I may have exploited a hole in your government's server protocol."

John's jaw dropped. "You hacked it?!"

Sherlock smirked. "Mycroft will be cross."

Rebecca, on the other hand, found it hard to find humor in the situation. Unlike Sherlock, she didn't necessarily enjoy antagonizing the older Holmes.

"Oh, he's already made his disapproval plenty apparent," she muttered darkly. Each word was accompanied by a vicious jab at her keyboard.

She pulled up the security footage, turned the laptop screen to face the two men, and pressed play. Having already watched the video many times, she focused on Sherlock and John instead. Sherlock was leaning forward and John pulled the ice away from his eyes for a better view. Rebecca wasn't sure what Sherlock was able to discern from the videos, but it must be something given the way his eyes flickered all over the screen.

After the video ended, John peered over at Sherlock and asked, "That was the man from earlier today, right?"

Sherlock nodded. "Mostly likely, he has approximately the same height and build."

Her heart leaped into her throat. "You’ve seen him then? In person? That's how you have the mask."

John met Sherlock's gaze and she got the sense there was a conversation taking place that she was not privy to. He gave her an apologetic expression and explained, "We went to your friend Yuugi's hotel room. There was a man there wearing that mask."

"Then you must have seen his face!" She exclaimed, sitting up with her spine rod-straight. It sounded almost too good to be true.

John shook his head, "He got away from us. I'm sorry, Rebecca."

She slumped back. "He attacked you, didn't he? That's why you look like this."

"We were simply caught by surprise. It won't happen again." Sherlock sulked.

"They were all wearing animal masks in the video. Why those animals though? Is there some sort of meaning?" John mused out loud.

Rebecca hesitated before pressing another button to bring up the photo of the hieroglyphics graffiti she'd taken earlier. "I also found these on a nearby building."

"Can you read it?" Sherlock was studying her like she was one of his cases. She squirmed under his gaze.

She shook her head. Isis Ishtar had been easy enough to reach with only a one-hour time difference— her delicately drawn eyebrows had furrowed with concern as she translated the hieroglyphics. "No, I can't. Kaiba wasn't happy about it, but he got in contact with an acquaintance who can. She said it roughly translates to 'We humbly request an audience with Osiris at the city of battles'."

John looked over at Sherlock and asked, "When you were attacked inside the room, Anubis also said something like that to you, right Sherlock?"

"If we don't see Osiris at tomorrow's tournament, we can't guarantee Yuugi Mutou's safety." Sherlock recited.

Rebecca's heart skipped a beat. None of this was a coincidence— not the mask, the hieroglyphics, nor Yuugi's kidnapping.

"I got it! The God cards!" John exclaimed as his face lit up. "It's a ransom note! They must want Osiris in exchange for Yuugi!"

Her face fell. "Saint Dragon— the God of Osiris?"

"What are you two talking about?" Sherlock scowled.

John eagerly sprung into an explanation. "When Seto Kaiba held his first Battle City almost thirteen years ago, a trio of rare one-of-a-kind cards surfaced during the tournament. Kaiba started with one that I think was called _The God of the Obelisk_ . Someone else had the _Winged God Dragon of Ra_ . And Yuugi himself had _Saint Dragon— The God of Osiris_. Because of a special tournament rule where the winner of a duel also won the loser's strongest card, Yuugi ended up with all three of the God cards by the end. That must be what the kidnappers want!"

Sherlock produced a deck box out of seemingly nowhere. He must have gotten it from Yuugi's hotel room.

Before he could flip open the box, she heard herself say, "Don't bother looking, the cards aren't in there. We can't give it to them even if we wanted to. The God cards are lost for good." Her mouth was moving but she didn't feel like she was the one in control of it.

Her worry was beginning to deepen into panic. Frankly, she had never cared for the Millennium Items or the God Cards. She didn't doubt their power— didn't doubt there were powers beyond that which her science could explain or model, but liking or even tolerating them was a different story. She believed in the Nameless Pharaoh's existence; because her grandfather believed. But Rebecca hadn't been part of the core group that orbited the spirit in his adventures, so she never had the opportunity to get used to the idea. Nor had she been acquainted with him long enough to develop genuine affection for Atem like Anzu and the rest did.

(Because a small part of her— a childish one— cannot forgive or forget that the Pharaoh fucking dared to return as the sole occupant of Yuugi's body that one early morning thirteen years ago.)

The Pharaoh Atem was resting in peace at long last and Yuugi had moved on. This was Yuugi's past— one that should stay buried with the Millennium Items and the God Cards in the desert.

"Rebecca? What is it?"

She belatedly registered the fact that Sherlock was speaking from much closer than before. She spooked, jerked her head upward, and was ensnared in her cousin's all-seeing gaze. Sherlock was worried about her. But all she could think about was the wrong Yuugi, shoulders slumped in defeat but still standing too tall, framed by the backdrop of rocky plateaus smudged by the dry desert heat. She couldn't do anything then for her Yuugi, and she remained just as powerless now.

"What's wrong?" John had also moved to her side. "You've gone completely pale."

When John reached out to touch her forehead, she flinched and shrunk away. 

"Tell me. You know something," Sherlock insisted.

Her body shivered as the stress of the last few days finally took its toll. Her eyes lingered on their battered faces and she finally admitted to herself that Kaiba may be right. She should have never brought this— long dead Pharaohs and insidious shadow magic— to their doorstep. They had already been attacked once. They may have emerged relatively unscathed this time, but what about the next time?

Her resolve solidified in an instance. They couldn't investigate any longer— it was not their responsibility.

"It's nothing!" She snapped and shoved Sherlock aside to retrieve her laptop. Better the hurt in his eyes than they be utterly vacant. "You're done. I don't need you anymore."

John shook his head. "You can't be serious. These are obviously dangerous people. You could get hurt."

She shoved her belongings into her bag. "We'll be fine. We'll handle it ourselves."

Rebecca had to be able to believe in that much. She needed to get back to the others and report her findings as soon as possible. She jumped to her feet and headed toward the door. Whatever she expected to happen from there on, it wasn't Sherlock shooting forward and physically barring her from leaving.

"You _need_ my help."

"You don't understand. It's complicated!"

"Then explain it." Sherlock said haughtily, his eyes afire with challenge.

Rebecca laughed, almost choking on the sound as it clawed out of her throat. How does one begin to explain the shadows cast on their modern world by an ancient Pharaoh trapped within a puzzle and a card game based on ritualistic duels from several thousand years ago? Sherlock's pride played no small part in his stubbornness, but she would never be able to forgive herself if she let that pride be the literal death of him. No, now that it was apparent that someone(s) interested in ancient Egypt and possibly dark magic was involved, she couldn't drag the two of them into the mess.

She glanced helplessly back at John, whom she got the increasing sense that Sherlock might never forgive her if anything happened to him. And Mycroft would also certainly blame her if Sherlock ended up soul-less and catatonic.

"No," she shook her head and rearranged her grip on her bag. "I need you, an outsider, to stay the hell out of our business."

She owed the Holmes family enough to not involve them. Sherlock had just gotten his life back.

His face became void of expression, but that was probably as good as striking a physical blow at him. Rebecca flew down the stairs and out the doors of 221B Baker Street. She had to have faith that she and the others would be able to find and rescue Yuugi on their own. They’d done it before and they’ll do it again without putting anyone else in harm's way.

-x-x-x-

A perceptible chill lingered in the room after Rebecca left. John watched as a stone-faced Sherlock stared at the spot she once occupied. Several minutes later, he called hesitantly, "Sherlock—"

"Quiet, John."

John shut his mouth with an audible click. Sherlock's face grew stormier with every passing second. It was the sort of emotional display that John wasn’t sure he had ever witnessed before. Under the churning turbulence, John could still make out the brilliant mind plowing through all possible scenarios.

"Stupid girl," Sherlock snapped and launched himself at the evidence wall he'd stayed up all night to construct. He tore entire sections of the material mounted and left them scattered on the floor like a snow drift.

Alarmed, John asked, "You're not giving up, are you?"

Sherlock leveled an annoyed glare in his direction. "Of course not, I need more room to work. She's frightened. Despite the brave face she's putting on. And she won't get far without us."

"That's a bit presumptuous, isn't it? She found the footage all on her own." John thought that was pretty impressive on its own. It figured that even Sherlock's young cousin would be brilliant beyond her years. "But she seemed pretty adamant about us stopping our investigation."

Sherlock appeared to be of a less charitable opinion. "She got lucky. But her grief is muddling her and she's not using her head. She's doing it out of some misguided attempt to keep us out of danger."

"Do you think it's really that serious?"

Sherlock plucked a sheet off the wall and thrust it into John's face. "Tell me about the necklace that Mutou is wearing in this photo."

The Yuugi depicted in the photo was a much younger Yuugi, probably from around the time where he had first emerged triumphant from the Duelist Kingdom tournament. The necklace in question was the ubiquitous golden pyramid pendant that Yuugi Mutou used to wear on a chain around his neck. "I think it's called the Millennium Puzzle. What's so interesting about it?"

"The eye symbol on his pendant also appeared in the graffiti that Rebecca show us. No doubt that was the first thing that tipped her off. This puzzle is visible in every photo taken of Mutou during the first year he played competitively. But it disappeared soon after he participated in his first tournament in America. Do you know what happened to it?"

John wracked his brain for that specific timeframe, but he couldn't recall when Yuugi had stopped wearing it. "I don't know. Maybe he got tired of it?"

"No, Mutou would have never parted with it of his own free will. He treasured it."

How Sherlock came to that exact conclusion, John could only guess at.

Sherlock tore another photo down and continued, "Three other contestants in the first Battle City tournament were carrying trinkets with similar motifs. There must be a connection between them and Mutou."

The top eight contestants of that first major tournament sponsored by the Kaiba Corporation included Yuugi, Kaiba himself, Katsuya Jounouchi, Kujaku Mai, Namu, Ryou Bakura, Isis Ishtar, and Malik. The last three of whom were pictured wearing or carrying golden items with the eye symbol as Sherlock pointed out. The wicked slant of Ryou Bakura's facial features was so different from the doe-eyed face that the young man wore in Yuugi's album that John didn't reconcile them as the same person at first. John grimaced at the sight of the old scars covering half of Malik's face. Upon closer inspection, he realized the markings resembled hieroglyphics.

"So if we can find the connection between them, we might be able to find Yuugi then?" John asked.

"I need more data first. No one takes me off a case, John, and I don't need a child ten years younger than I am coddling me!" Sherlock exclaimed.

In the face of Sherlock's apparent outrage, John smothered a chortle. It made sense that barring Sherlock from a case only made him want to solve it all the more. "Let's get to work then."

-x-x-x-

Less than twenty minutes later, Sherlock shoved his laptop away in revulsion. "I've never read more ridiculous dribble in my life! Is everyone who plays this game a gullible idiot? If so, no wonder Rebecca is doing something as moronic as refusing _my_ help," he snorted before continuing darkly. "Monsters coming to life and these idiotic notions that the game began in ancient Egypt— or Atlantis even."

"It's a well-known fact that Pegasus J. Crawford, the inventor of Duel Monsters, spent many years in Egypt before he created the game. He could have been inspired by something he saw there." John pointed out without looking up from his screen.

"Atlantis, John!" Sherlock threw both arms up into the air and gave him _that_ look.

"Okay, that's a bit silly." John admitted. "The bit about monsters coming to life, I remember when that happened. We had that string of strange weather and aurora sightings around the same time. But Kaiba said that his company had nothing to do with those incidents, and investigations never found any projectors or machinery in the affected areas. What do you think really happened then?"

"Folie à plusieurs. Idiots clinging to the same delusion to explain a phenomena they don't understand." Sherlock grumbled irritably and rose to his feet. He regretted tasking John with looking through Mutou's email. It left Sherlock chasing rumors of high-stakes Duel Monster games perpetuated by over-invested card enthusiasts. "Have you uncovered anything?"

John hummed softly before replying, "Most of it's in Japanese so I can't read it, but there may be something. I found some emails in his sent box— they're written in English. Yuugi was reaching out to several private investigators in the local area. He doesn’t go into much detail in his emails, but I think he was trying to hire one."

"How long ago did he send those emails?"

"Um, back in March. I wonder what he was looking for."

Sherlock's eyes fell shut and he began reconstructing the scene from the CCTV footage in an empty room within his mind palace. He may have only watched the video once through, but he was fairly confident that he had committed all the necessary details to memory. He didn't bother placing the surrounding buildings as they were not the object of interest. Yuugi Mutou entered from house right in skinny jeans and a leather vest. As he walked down the sidewalk, he looked to his left, right, and then up. Once he reached center-stage, Mutou paused and consulted the object barely hidden in the palm of his small hands. Sherlock paused the scene and approached. It was a piece of paper, mostly likely inscribed with a local address.

Without opening his eyes, he reached into his jacket coat and the crumpled note containing the address he had traced in Mutou's hotel room brushed against his fingertips. He nearly forgot about it after what happened next with their jackal-headed attacker and Rebecca. "Not what, but whom. He was looking for someone. Let's go, John, we're going out."

-x-x-x-

The cab dropped them off on a street in East Ham lined with council flats. There were handfuls of pedestrians, mostly returning home from work or going out to dinner. A group of four teenagers meandered past, giving Sherlock a wide breadth and eyeing him with open suspicion as they passed. Leaving John to pay the cabbie, Sherlock bound down the block— past the CCTV camera that caught Mutou's abduction and to the building in the dead center. A glimpse around the corner of the building confirmed the rest of Sherlock's theories.

John jogged to catch up with him. "This is the street where Yuugi was taken." His gaze followed Sherlock's down the narrow alley to the graffiti-filled walls. "And that's the message that Rebecca showed us."

Sherlock squeezed around several rubbish bins slew haphazardly by the mouth of the alley. John followed closely on his heel. They stopped before the particular stretch of wall peppered with bright yellow hieroglyphics. The paint dried days ago, but it was impossible to tell from sight whether it had been done before or after Yuugi Mutou was taken. The runoff from each glyph and the hesitant strokes indicated that whomever wrote them had never used spray-paint before. But neither of these two points was the most interesting observation to take away from the scene.

"The message was not meant for Rebecca or her ilk." Sherlock turned from the wall and craned his neck to get a better look up the fire-escape.

"Then who was it for?"

"Someone who's flat overlooks this alley." He pointed up to a fifth story window.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. The inside of the building was dingy as it appeared to have seen only sporadic maintenance since it was first built in the 1960s. The walls were thin, allowing him to catch snippets of conversations in Punjabi or whatever was playing on the telly inside. The lift gave a small shudder as it came to a stop on the fifth floor. The address from Mutou's room led them to the flat at the end of a hallway on the far side of the building.

Sherlock was sure that one of the windows within offered a view of the graffitied wall. He lifted a fist and knocked.

There was no immediate answer. Sherlock leaned in closer, straining his ears to listen for signs of life on the other side. He frowned and began reaching for his lock picks. But before he could pull them out, John sighed and reached over to ring the doorbell.

"One moment!" Someone called from within.

Sherlock scowled while John raised a cheeky eyebrow. It was another minute before he heard the sound of the deadbolt disengaging. The door slowly opened to reveal a young Arab man who could have been Yuugi Mutou’s twin standing on the other side of the threshold.


End file.
